


Do it clean

by TheFierceBeast



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Awkward Boners, Awkwardness, Banter, Caretaking, Comfort, Facial Shaving, Fluff and Smut, Gentleness, Gordlock - Freeform, Gotham is for lovers, Grooming, Hair Kink, Hair Washing, Humiliation kink, Injury Recovery, M/M, Shame kink, Shaving, Shower Sex, Showers, Size Difference, Small Penis, Teasing, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Wet Clothing, hairfic, in an incidental way not a kink way, washing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-17
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-01-15 16:04:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18502345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast
Summary: Jim's broken his wrist at work (let's be real: it's a miracle he hasn't broken his neck yet) and Harvey offers to help him out with some of the little things that are suddenly tricky.Rating is for chapter 2, but you gotta eat your dinner before you have dessert ;)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [goldleaf1066](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldleaf1066/gifts).



Harvey Bullock does not believe in God. Even so, he's pretty sure that when he dies, most likely bloody, he will be going to Hell. It's just that, sinning is kinda his hobby. He enjoys it, it's addictive. Yet nothing he's so far managed to perpetrate in his colourful existence can hold a candle to the things he'd like to do to Jim Gordon.

  
That’s not the _only_ reason he’s standing on Jim’s doorstep right now, but he’d be lying if it wasn’t _one_ of the reasons. One, in a long list.  
When the door opens, he’s greeted with the sorriest expression he’s ever seen, and it’s so weirdly cute that he has to struggle to keep the grin off of his mug. "Hey. I brought pizza. You look like steamed crap."  
"Nice to see you, too." Jim flashes him that hangdog look and then just slopes off into the lounge, letting Harvey lock up and follow. 

  
The place is a mess. Like, a Bullock mess, not a Gordon mess, and that's a little concerning. He follows suit when Jim sits, slumping onto the sofa. Harvey drops the pizza box onto the coffee table, shifts a stack of papers onto the carpet and sits in the armchair. Studies him.

  
He looks tired, which is normal, and pained, which is also disturbingly normal but presumably has a lot to do with the fact his right hand is bandaged up in a sling. What is decidedly not normal is how he's wearing a bathrobe, which is open enough at the neck to keep revealing hints of skin. Bare legs, which suggests maybe he's wearing _only_ a bathrobe and suddenly Harvey's pulse rate is creeping up, which is all kinds of wrong, considering the circumstances. He clears his throat. "How's the paw?"  
Jim looks down ruefully at his injured hand, then back up at Harvey with a lopsided smile as he says, "Broken."  
"Have you eaten?" Because, priorities. Jim's smile softens, in a way that makes Harvey's gut go all butterflies, and he shakes his head, reaching for the pizza box with his good hand. As he bends, Harvey catches a good eyeful of toned chest, and has to look away for the sake of his blood pressure. It's not like you don't see guys in the locker room: it's that you don't _look_ ; any fool knows that. Even a self-confessed sleaze like Harvey's not about to betray the Bro Code, so all's he's had before this is the fleeting impression of that pristine, white, good-boy underwear. And he may still be wearing the shorts, but Harvey's guessing it's hard to get a singlet on over his head with that bandaged hand and-  
"You not eating?"  
"Huh?"  
Jim gestures with his second slice. He practically inhaled the first one and that shouldn’t be a turn-on either, but Harvey’s the first to admit he’s freaky as all get out, and his kinks now apparently include Jim snarfing junk food.

"I owe you, by the way.” Jim says. “For this. I never realised how much I couldn't do one-handed before now. Cooking's become a chore."  
"As if you ever cooked anyhow." Harvey takes a slice, mainly to occupy himself while he steals sly glances at Jim's naked calves, his socked feet making him look all strangely vulnerable. "Is that the reason for the face fuzz? Didn't know you could even grow a beard, boy-scout."  
"It looks terrible." Harvey’s got to privately concede it sort of does: but he’s so used to Jim all clean-cut that any kind of deviation from the norm is a naughty little thrill. Plus, Jim's voice is full of prissy irritation and it's adorable.  
"Nah, I dunno. I kinda like it. Makes you look tough."  
The grimace Jim pulls is enough to communicate what he thinks of that idea. “It’s really that hard to shave one-handed?” Harvey asks. “What, you use one of those fancy straight razors or something?”

“I spend enough time with live blades at my throat at work, thanks.” Jim says, with a concessionary eye-roll.

Harvey beams at him, and snags another slice of Hawaiian. And sure, it might be the Gordon version of a joke, but it’s true enough. Hazards of the job: it’s the reason Jim’s stuck here on leave with a broken wrist. Or, rather, Jim’s borderline kamikaze habit of diving headfirst after bad guys is the reason. “Maybe next time you face a perp with a machete, you can try _not_ flying tackling him, then?”

A tiny smile tugs the corner of Jim’s mouth. “I took him down, didn’t I?”

“Oh, absolutely. Like a champ. A champ with a glass wri– hey!” Well, there’s nothing wrong with his feet at least, judging by the kick he’s just delivered to Harvey’s shin. It dislodges Jim’s robe a bit further: Harvey gets a view right up the smooth expanse of his inner thigh, and has to look away, guiltily, stuffing pizza into his mouth. “That’s a ‘no’ on the straight-razor, then?”

“Let me guess: I should just give up and follow your grooming example, right?”

“You wish. As if you could pull off a look this debonair.”

That gets him another smile, albeit a little weary and pained. The downcast sweep of Jim’s eyelashes is doing him in. Harvey says, “You want me to give you a shave?”

A suspicious glance up. “Really?”

“What, you never got a shave at the barbers before?”  
"Sure. Why not." He sounds weary and angry, grateful and resigned all at once, and who could pull that off except James Gordon?

“Well, you’re welcome, kiddo.” When Harvey reaches for another slice of pizza, the box is already empty.

  
Jim’s bathroom is immaculate. Actually, sparse might be a better word – Harvey’s too used to ranks of shampoo and shower gel bottles lining the tub and a stack of paperbacks next to the john. This room, like the rest of Jim’s apartment, is minimalist bordering on the impersonal, like he just doesn’t have time to leave his mark on a place. It’s kinda sad. Although, it does look like it’d be way quicker to clean, Harvey has to concede.

“In the cabinet.” Jim nods to the sliding doors and Harvey conceals his mild disappointment that his razor and shave gel is right there and he doesn’t get an excuse to rummage around and satisfy his curiosity. The cabinet, like everything, seems minimal and well-ordered anyhow – no lube or Quaaludes in sight, more’s the pity. “How are we going to do this?”

“Take a seat, sir.” Harvey nods at the closed toilet lid, and Jim does that thing again, that fucking charming thing, where he ducks his head like he’s trying to hide his dumbass smile. “Yeah, I know. Chintzy little establishment, isn’t it?”

“Just don’t slice an ear off, OK?” Jim says, the smile all through his voice, and Harvey’s chest rings with it, as he swirls warm water into the sink and suds up his fingers.

“Cross my heart. It’s cool if I give you a Hitler moustache though, right?”

“ _Try it_.” The vehemence in his tone is almost as good as the smile.

 

And, yeah. He’s touched Jim a million times before, touched his face: grabbed him around the chops to plant a smacker on his cheek when the Knights scored a home run, even. But not like this. This is… premeditated. Deliberate and gentle, in a way that has Harvey struggling to keep his breath regular. “That OK?”

“Uh huh.” Jim’s on the edge of the seat, cradling his busted arm with the other one. He’s got his face tipped up, so that Harvey can work. From this angle, standing over him, he looks small. Submissive. All eyes. Harvey’s suddenly real glad that he brought him that pizza, because the kid needs looking after. Needs _spoiling_.

The hair beneath his fingertips is soft, compared to his own coarse beard he’s used to shaping. Soft, and fair: a light, golden shade of brown, untouched by grey. Harvey strokes the shave gel through it, foaming it up. Trails fingertips up Jim’s throat, his own throat tightening at how Jim tips his head back and lowers his eyelashes, at the touch. It’s captivating.  This trust.

Of course, there’s no reason for Jim _not_ to trust him… Harvey wets the blade, thankfully a standard safety razor, the type he uses himself to keep stuff tidy. It’s just… he tilts Jim’s head further back, the tips of his fingers under Jim’s chin, and the ease with which he complies makes Harvey’s mouth go dry. The graceful line of his throat: suddenly Harvey’s thinking of what it would be like to put his mouth there and he prays his hands won’t shake as he strokes the razor slowly across wet skin.

At the first touch of the blade, Jim draws his lower lip between his teeth, sucks lightly on it. His chest is moving steadily, up, down, beneath the open collar of his robe. His eyes are hooded.

Harvey’s hands are gentle. Precise. He knows he can be. Rinses the blade in the basin, shaking off a froth of shaving gel and a scatter of bristles. Steadies Jim’s jaw with a forefinger as he shaves a second stripe bare, concentration so intense he’s holding his breath. Lets his finger slip to Jim’s pulse point, feels it ticking there, fast, as Jim exhales a shuddery breath through his nose, jaw muscles twitching.

It’s like all the air is being drawn from the room. This primed silence, broken only by the quiet scrape of the razor, as Harvey steadily shaves him. He goes slow. Some part of him doesn’t want this to end, no matter how awkward the drawn-out wordlessness is starting to feel. It’s not just him, either. He can see Jim starting to squirm. To fidget, his toes curling against the tiled floor, the belt of his robe coming looser. Harvey rinses the blade again. “Almost done.” His voice comes out soft, low, and Jim’s eyes flick towards his face, catch his gaze like a shock of static, look quickly away again. Fuck, but he’s stunning. Especially like this. There’s a flush of colour in his cheeks that’s probably from the path of the razor, but Harvey can pretend… “Now, you’re sure you don’t wanna keep the ‘tache?”

Jim’s voice is quiet in return, strangely rough. “Not this time.” Harvey can’t take his eyes off his lips. Takes extra care there, patiently stripping every last trace of hair, until Jim is recognisably _Jim_ again…

He’s silent as he soaks a washcloth in hot water. Wipes the remnants of foam from Jim’s chin. And Jim could do this part himself, but Harvey realises he _wants_ to and Jim is _letting_ him… His wide eyes follow Harvey’s every move. Eating him up. And God help him, but Harvey would love to just… he traces the line of one cheekbone with his thumb, and could swear that Jim leans into his touch. His palm comes around to cup his jaw, thumb stroking reverently. His skin’s so soft, freshly naked and sensitive,  just begging to be touched… his thumb presses lightly against the divot beneath Jim’s chin, fingers trailing down the side of his throat, curling around… and Jim tips his head back and _gasps_ and Harvey sees and can’t unsee, where his robe’s fallen further apart, the unmistakable tent in his shorts…

He’s lost. Absolutely lost. He should kiss him. Instead, his voice is in no way steady as he asks, “Jim? Is there anything else I can do for you, man?”

That’s done it. Jim’s eyes flick open, look up at him all kinda shocked, like he’s just woken suddenly from a dream. “Anything _at all_?” Harvey wets his lips. Hopes Jim’s got the message.

It’s clear that he has.

That panic is back in his expression, as he clears his throat and sits up straight, gathering his robe around him with his good hand, like he’s just been caught spanking it in a library or something. He clears his throat again, wild-eyed. “Thanks. Thanks, Harv. I’m good.”

“You sure?” Harvey takes a reluctant step back, nonplussed.

“Yeah. I’m- I’m actually kind of tired.” Jim’s eyes are desperate.  Pleading. It’s like having a bucket of cold water dumped on his crotch, and a fire lit under his heart, all at the same time.

He nods. “Sure, ‘course. You need your recovery rest.”

“Thanks again. For the shave. The pizza. You’re a good friend.”

“Any time, partner.” Harvey says. He wipes his hands on the guest towel, runs them through his hair. “You need _anything_ , _any_ time, you just gotta ask.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy Monday, have some smutty fluff.

 

It’s not that Harvey’s avoiding Jim, as much as he’s giving him space.

The situation is… odd. Far from normal, even for them. And sure, Harvey went over to Jim’s place with mostly altruistic motives – God knows he’s been keeping up with Dix for enough years now, and it’s not entirely through guilt and certainly nothing to do with libido – but the spark he’d felt ignite between them that day was _not_ in his overactive imagination, he’d put money on that.

 

He’s been through it in his head. Over and over again. The pinkness of Jim’s cheeks, his parted lips. The way he’d leaned into Harvey’s touch. He’d been hard: there was no way Harvey’d mistaken _that_ eyefull. And maybe it was nothing to do with Harvey: maybe it was just an involuntary reaction to sensation, perhaps Jim just has some freaky kink for being shaved, but that’s not stopped Harvey from jerking it every day since to the memory.

It’s been three days, and he’s about ready to stop with the space-giving and check in, when the phone rings.

 

“Yello?”

“Harv?”

“Jim? Hey, buddy.” Harvey leans back into the comfortable embrace of his armchair and tries not to worry at his lower lip too much. “I was just thinkin’ of calling you. How you faring?”

“Not too bad. A little better.”

He doesn’t sound better. He sounds kinda hinky, like there’s something he’s not letting on, but Harvey dutifully pushes his tone to ‘enthused’ as he says. “That’s great! Any news on when you’ll be back in?”

“Missing me that much?”

There’s an odd, breathless edge to his voice that Harvey might put down to pain if he didn’t somehow suspect otherwise. He shifts in his seat, suddenly antsy. Jim’s surely referring to work, but something in his tone makes Harvey think that Jim means _specifically_ him… “Well, obviously, the department’s not able to function for more than a day without our fearless leader.” His sarcasm is met with the appropriate huff of laughter, but still… something’s off. “You need anything, in the meantime?” There’s a pause. The quiet static crackle of breath on the other end of the line. “Jim?”

“If you’re passing…”

Harvey’s heart stutters. “Sure. I can swing by. What d’ya need, brother?”

“Some takeout wouldn’t go amiss.”

“You forget how to dial a phone, or are you askin’ for the pleasure of my company?” _Too much?_ He bites his lip. The answering laugh sounds a little more hesitant this time.

“Just taking pity on you. You’ve had to sit through two weeks’ worth of Hollister’s in-laws anecdotes with nobody to rescue you.”

“True enough. I’ll bring Thai.”

“Thanks, Harv. And...”

“Yeah?” He realises he’s leaning forward in the chair. He licks his lips.

“This is kind of embarrassing…”

Harvey’s stomach drops, like he’s just broken the speed limit over a hill. “Shoot, kid. I got your back.”

Jim’s voice is low. Hesitant, but determined, gritting the words out like it pains him. “It’s been tricky to wash my hair with my hand like this. I’d appreciate…” He tails off, awkwardly, and Harvey practically falls over the words in his haste to reply.

“Sure. ‘Course. Say no more. It’s no biggie.” Another pause, but Jim doesn’t answer. Maybe he’s hung up already, but the charged quiet on the other end of the line says otherwise. Harvey swallows to clear his suddenly tight throat, hopes it’s not audible to the man listening to him. “Gimme an hour and I’ll be over.”

 

 

It’s more like ninety minutes, because heaven help him, he has to jack off again to take the edge off. Even if it’s an absolutely innocent request on Jim’s part, there’s something about Jim Gordon actually outright asking for his aid that touches something deep inside Harvey that he feels vaguely like he should be ashamed of. Getting off on someone’s vulnerability is creepy, right? Except, he’s not exactly sure that’s what he’s doing. Jim trusting him, relying on him, gets him right in the heart and there’s no way he wants to make it weird, to act out of turn just because he can’t control how his stupid hair-trigger libido works when he’s around Jim Gordon dressed in only a bathrobe.

 

Because when Jim answers the door, he’s still wearing the robe.

Harvey nods and smiles and breezes past and tries not to stare again.

It’s probably the same bathrobe, he thinks, although Jim’s surely doing laundry because it’s so goddamn _white_. And that’s good, he’s not gone full let-go stir-crazy in his recuperative boredom. Except… Harvey raises his eyebrows.

“Don’t give me that look.” Jim presses his lips together in a pissy little pout and runs a hand through his hair, which does nothing to help the situation: it sticks up in dirty-gold clumps, full of built-up product.

“I’m sayin’ nothing.” Harvey puts the takeout down on the coffee table. It’s clear that Jim’s not done any tidying in the last three days, either. "You coulda just asked, y’know. It wouldn't kill you to admit you need help once in a while. I could give you a hand." Jim ignores the obvious pun, or knowing him, doesn't notice. "Cleaning or whatever."  
"Cleaning? Really?" That sardonic tilt to Jim’s smile is maddening.  
"Hey! I clean!"  
"Of course you do." He crosses his arms, tilts up his chin, and Harvey is once again sledgehammered by the desire to kiss him.

He shakes his head. "Listen, bub, my place is cluttered, not dirty. There is a difference." Jim just nods, infuriatingly humouring. "Cluttered!" He spells out, actually a little aggrieved that he can't quite tell if Jim's just yanking his chain or not.  
"OK. OK." Or maybe he wants to slap him, now he’s smirking like that.  
Harvey narrows his eyes, going in for the kill. "Which is more than can be said for this sty right now, pal. When was the last time you showered?"  
  
Jim winces. It's gotta be humiliating to be called out on it, for someone so usually fastidious as him, and Harvey feels instantly guilty. Is opening his mouth to apologise, when Jim says, quietly. "I hate being helpless."

Harvey’s belly does that dropping thing again, all adrenaline excitement. Jim’s so invested in maintaining his stoic, upstanding masculinity at all times that sometimes Harvey forgets about his need for validation. But if that isn’t an open invitation… "You hate being idle. But you love being taken care of, am I right?"  
"I don't -"  
"Nah, you're right. You don't need to answer that.” Harvey takes a step closer. “You just need to be a good boy and let me look after you."  
Jim's eyes widen at that, a little flare of panic with the longing and Harvey wonders if he's pushed too far too fast. It’s taken him a while to learn how to read him: the guy's so repressed he doesn't even know himself. But it's been worth it. It's so very worth it. Jim might be a tough cookie, but like the best, he’s got a soft centre. “We good?”

A moment, and then Jim nods, hesitantly. “Good boy,” Harvey repeats, and reaches out and ruffles his hair.

 

The look on his face is priceless. Worth it, even if he kicks Harvey out right now. Except, he’s not kicking him out. There’s an angry spot of colour burning across each cheekbone and Jim’s eyes are bright, his hands shaking, but he doesn’t protest.

It's kind of disquieting, and kind of hot. Jim seems so angry, so pent up, but so skittish at the same time, like Harvey's gotta handle him real careful to keep him on-side. But if there's one thing Harvey knows about it's handling Jim Gordon: he could practically put it on his CV at this stage. He’s so knotted up and conflicted. It beats Harvey how the guy can even manage to be angry at being horny. But there it is.

He doesn’t speak, just turns abruptly and walks to the bathroom, glancing back once, briefly, to make sure Harvey’s following.

And of course Harvey follows, like an obedient hound.

 

The moment he’s in the bathroom, Jim pulls the door to. Fixes him with a hard, unreadable look that sends Harvey’s mouth dry. And Harvey is a pleasure junkie. The one thing that turns him on more than anything else is pleasing a partner. Women, men, top, bottom, it's all good, so long as he can feel their need. That they _want_ him, that he's _pleasing_ them, and oh lord but the want is rolling off Jim right now in desperate, denial-laced waves, but Harvey doesn’t dare touch until he has verbal permission. Not after last time, not like _that_. Not knowing Jim as he does.

“How’d you wanna do this? Can you bend down OK to reach the sink?” He keeps his voice casual with effort.

Jim glares at him, enough to raise a shiver. “It’s my wrist that’s the problem, not my back.”

“Alright, smartass. Do you want my help, or not?” Jim rolls his eyes. Thumbs in the plug and starts to run the hot tap and Harvey tries to deny to himself that he’s starting to feel nervous.

It’s OK for Jim.

He doesn’t have to look at himself.

Doesn’t have to see himself with that always-neat and pristine hair wild and tousled like he’s just spent an entire night solid going at it in bed… Harvey takes a deep breath and wills his dick to behave. “Here… bend over.” Yeah, that’s not helping. He never thought he’d say _those_ words to James Gordon.

 

Jim bends, obligingly, as Harvey finishes rolling his sleeves up to the elbow. Holds his injured wrist gingerly as Harvey tries to be gentle, sluicing warm water over Jim’s hair as he tries to simultaneously keep it out of his eyes and not pay attention to how Jim’s ass is sticking out like that.

It’s tricky. The position is not ideal, and it’s hard to keep the water from going everywhere. “Sorry, man.” He pushes the collar of Jim’s robe back, from where it keeps riding up the nape of his neck, soaked already.

“Would it be easier if I took my robe off?”

Harvey tries to breathe normally. “Yeah… maybe…”

He’d avoid Jim’s eyes, except that Jim kinda needs his help to – sweet Mother help him – _get undressed_ , and it’s a moot point anyway with how studiously _Jim_ is avoiding _his_ gaze. Jim slicks his wet hair back with his good hand, getting water goddamn _everywhere_ , but Harvey’s not about to comment. Not when he’s untying the belt of his robe, pulling one arm out and allowing Harvey to assist with the other, bearing the weight of the towelling as he carefully slips his injured hand in its cast from the wide sleeve.

 _Act like a grown up, Bullock_. It’s not like he’s not seen a dude in his unmentionables before. But who’s he kidding? Harvey’s dick is definitely taking an inappropriate interest now, and who can blame it?

It’s awkward for a different reason when Jim bends over the sink again, but it’s certainly easier to access his hair. He stands to the side, all too diffidently aware of the level his crotch is at, but it’s either this or stand pressed up behind Jim and lean over him and that just ain’t happening… “You alright down there?”

“Uh huh.”

“Tell me if I get soap in your eyes.”

 

He re-wets Jim’s hair, trying to submerge as much in the water as he can. He’s always fantasised about touching it. Running his fingers through it. The reality is… not what he expected. If he’s honest it feels kinda gross, thick and weirdly tacky with whatever it is Jim plasters it with to keep it so brutally neat. It’s that neatness that’s always got to him. Made him want to mess him up, spoil his perfection. And now… Harvey’s fingers are slick with shampoo as he slides them firmly into the thickness of it, massaging the clinging glue of gel free. If Jim feels anything about the situation, he can’t tell: Jim shuffles his socked feet against the linoleum, says nothing. The muscles in his naked back shift, subtly. Harvey tries not to look: can’t help himself. Jim’s skin is so smooth. Perfect. Broad shoulders, narrow waist. The definition in his arms makes Harvey catch his breath _. OK – concentrate_. He cups one palm, rinses the soap out as best he’s able. Jim fidgets again, the fingers of his good hand curling around the white porcelain rim of the basin. “You doin’ OK?”

“This is uncomfortable.”

 _You’re tellin’ me…_ “Sorry, man, almost done. It’s your own fault for putting so much crap in your hair. I’ve known punks use wood glue with less hold than this!” He’s teasing, of course. After one shampoo, it’s mostly washed out. The hair beneath his hands is soft now, wet silk in the water, dark with moisture but already noticeably a lighter shade than he’s used to. Harvey wonders what it’ll look like dried. Soft and tousled. Hopes he’ll get to see. Maybe it’ll dry whilst they’re eating dinner… “Conditioner?”

“Yeah.”

 

Really, he just wants an excuse to touch him some more. This goes in easier, sleek and satiny, lets him really go to town, circling his fingers against Jim’s scalp, easing out the tension there. Beneath him, Jim makes a quiet noise. He adjusts his stance again. The position makes the snowy white cotton of his shorts pull tight against his ass, defining the perfect curve of it, and Harvey is fully hard now, but Jim never needs to know how he’s gazing so dizzy and besotted as he strokes his fingers through Jim’s soaking locks.

“Come up a bit. I need to run some fresh water.”

“There has to be an easier way than this.”

His cheeks are all pink from where he’s been bending over. Harvey rinses the soap suds from the bowl and studiously does _not_ let his eye-line drop below Jim’s shoulders, no matter how much he wants to check out the rest.

His mind is racing, too many thoughts, as he says, “You could just get in the shower.” And his pulse stutters as he sees the dark flicker in Jim’s eyes. “It’d sure be easier.”

“Yeah.”

 _Oh, yeah?_ That’s definitely not the expression of a guy who’s one hundred percent uninterested. “I'm sure you got nothing I ain't seen before.” Harvey shrugs, deliberately casual. "Keep your shorts on if you're shy. I ain't here to judge, I'm just here to help out a little. I know you'd do the same for me, partner."

 

Perhaps that's what does it. The guilty flash across Jim's eyes because they both know damn well, despite Harvey's cheery, unfaltering display of conviction, that Jim may or may not do the same for him were their current roles reversed.

 

It’s a little ridiculous, Jim climbing into the shower in his underwear, but Harvey isn’t gonna question it. Aside from anything else, it _is_ easier to rinse his hair like this, Harvey combing a hand through the slippery mass of it until all of the conditioner is rinsed and Jim’s hair is wet gold, slicked back against his scalp. Until Harvey’s shirt is soaked to one shoulder, but he couldn’t care less.

It’s not the only thing that’s soaked.

 

It’s worse than if Jim had actually been naked, the hot water soaking through white cotton, plastering it drenched transparent to the thick jut of Jim's cock, the dark shadow of hair. It's pornographic, even more so than if he were bare, and try as he might, Harvey can’t keep from glancing down. Jim can tell, too, the way he's turning away, trying to cover himself as his dick plumps and twitches even more under all the attention. Harvey tries to keep his voice light, gentle, for all he feels he's choking up.  
"You may as well take ‘em off. No need to be shy around me." And Jim's cheeks colour up furiously, his chest rising and falling like there's scarce air in the room as Harvey takes the initiative, leaning into the spray fully clothed and easing Jim's saturated shorts down over his hips, his thighs, fair hair slicked dark with water, to land with a sodden thump in the tub. Jim's dick flexes, fully hard now, twitching stiff against the soft plane of his belly and fuck, Harvey is aching to touch.

He's every bit as pretty as Harvey's too-often fantasised: not big, but nicely proportioned and cut, kinda _elegant_ , flushed a dark, rosy pink. More than a mouthful: Harvey swallows as his mouth suddenly floods with spit at the thought. And it might be a liberty, but he can't help but brush his fingertips along the sleek line of Jim's hip, and the shudder Jim rewards him with makes Harvey's own dick ache.  
  
"You need a little help there? With... washing?"  
Jim nods, mute, like he can't bear to admit it, but his eyes are blazing dark.  
"Your clothes are getting wet." His voice sounds husky, so full of _want_ that Harvey feels lightheaded.  
"I should probably take ‘em off, huh?"  
"It would make sense."

  
Jim watches him as he strips, watches him intently with not even a pretence of disinterest. His good hand has drifted down to cover his modesty, which is all kinds of freaking charming, and he paints quite the picture, the water running rivulets over smooth skin. That perfect body of his, compact and toned, not ripped, but beautifully symmetrical, despite its smattering of scars. The light scattering of hair across his chest, down the soft curve of his belly – Harvey hadn’t been expecting that, either, and it runs a thrill right through him, like this is secret stuff. Things nobody usually gets to see.  
And Harvey drops his shirt on the floor, on top of his tie and shoes, socks and pants. Notes the way Jim's lips part, his little intake of breath before he says, "And the rest."  
"Yeah?"

 _You sure?_ He'd kept his underwear on as a courtesy, unsure of how far this is going. It's already plain how it's affecting him, his hard-on tenting the front of his striped shorts, but Jim just nods. Licks his lips, pensive, and grates out, "You don't want to get them wet." As Harvey hooks his thumbs into his waistband and drops his last scrap of pretence, he can't help but notice how Jim presses the heel of his hand against the head of the erection he's half-assedly concealing.

  
Damn, but they look good together. All contrasts. Harvey's into that. He's not a particularly tall guy, but Jim makes him feel big. Ignites a sort of _protective_ feeling in him that's totally different from how he feels protective in the context of work. Which is stupid because he knows how handy Jim is in a fight, how capable of looking after himself. But he's also not sure if Jim's very capable of looking after himself emotionally at all.

  
 It's warm under the shower spray, a warm wet cocoon, and the outside world might as well not exist. The size of the tub pushes them close together and Harvey's never been more thrillingly aware of their height difference as he looks down at Jim, naked and wet and glaring back up at him in some kind of unspoken challenge.

His own voice sounds a little hoarse when he speaks. "Where can't you reach?"  
"My back." Jim's voice is an unsteady rasp. He hands him the soap. Doesn't break eye contact, and Harvey isn't sure if he's ever been this turned on in his misspent life before.  
"Yes, sir." He's drowning in those wide blue eyes. Suds his palms up, and Jim doesn't move, doesn't turn, so Harvey reaches around him in a wet embrace, running his hands slippery across Jim's shoulder blades. Down the length of his spine, kneading the sleek sweep of muscle, the dimples at his lower back. The movement pulls them closer together. When their stiff cocks brush accidentally Harvey can't hold in a moan, the sensation zipping through him like electricity. It's all he can do to not crush Jim to him, rut against him. But that would be against the rules, and this game is such sweet, sweet torture when it's played properly.  
Jim doesn't make a sound, but his eyelids flicker shut, water droplets twinkling on his eyelashes. His lips part. They look full, swollen and pink with arousal. And they're close enough that Harvey can feel Jim's breath against his neck, wonders if he could get away with accidentally brushing their lips together too.  
"That OK?"  
"Mmm." Jim's avoiding his eyes. The blush on his cheeks has spread down across his chest, his nipples tight little peaks, and Harvey knows he must look in a pretty similar state right now. He can’t take his eyes from Jim’s mouth. His lips are tingling, oversensitive and desperate for contact. Even his scalp is prickling, every nerve ending on high alert, begging for sensation.  
"Should I carry on?"  
"Yes."

  
He doesn't want to move from this position, wants to keep Jim in his arms for as long as he can. So he soaps up again, passes his hands across Jim's belly, his hips, back around to knead at the dimpled curve where lower back meets ass.   
It's so slow the intensity is almost unbearable. The unspoken, instinctual etiquette of this. It's fucked up and ludicrous and when their straining dicks touch again Harvey hisses a breath in through clenched teeth and wills himself not to spunk right there and then.

  
His hands drift lower. Jim resting against his chest with his bandaged hand held out of the shower spray. And Harvey's slick palms stroke across the perfect curve of Jim's ass. Cup and caress, going so slowly in case Jim balks, pulls the plug on this... Only, he doesn't. Harvey can feel the rise and fall of his breath. The steady jackhammer of his heart. Harvey's palms begin to circle, to knead: Jim shifts in his arms, brushing them slick and hard against one another again, the intense measured pleasure of it skewering Harvey to the core, his cock pulsing desperately. Harvey lets his fingertips drift. Ghosts them along the damp, downy crack of Jim's ass. Feels him squirm again, fidgeting, hears his breathing get shallower, faster. When he starts to massage, the motion pulling Jim's cheeks apart on each stroke beneath the beating shower spray, Jim moans, quietly. And Harvey's a gentleman, so he pretends not to hear. Just circles a soapy finger around Jim's entrance. Bites his lip to stifle a helpless sound himself when the tip slips inside almost of its own accord. He's so slippery, wet. So warm and relaxed. He still clenches reflexively against the intrusion, tightens around Harvey's finger in a way that goes straight to Harvey's dick. "Gotta be clean." Harvey whispers, against the damp silk of Jim's hair.

And Jim presses against him, actually pushes their dicks together, hips rocking gently, and echoes, "Got to be clean." In a voice that sounds beautifully broken, as Harvey pumps into him a little deeper, fingers him slow, marvels at being allowed to go this far. 

 

It’s a delicate thing, this balance. Harvey closes his eyes, and just feels. The beat of the water, the flutter of their breath – both sound and texture – the warmth of soft skin against his. The scent of the conditioner on Jim’s hair, clinging damp against Harvey’s lips. He palms Jim’s ass with both hands, squeezes gently and shivers at Jim’s quiet moan – whether from the touch, or from the loss of Harvey’s finger. When he slides inside him again, it’s his left hand, and it’s two fingers, and Jim moans louder, clawing at Harvey’s back with his uninjured hand, face pressed against his chest.

 

It’s overwhelming. Almost too much. The thrust of their hips, moving smoothly in rhythm is making Harvey lose his mind. Making him want to manhandle Jim around, bend him over again and give him something more than just his hands… the thought makes him pant: he eases a third finger inside tight heat and Jim groans, “Harv…” and Harvey feels the gentle scrape of teeth against his shoulder. Little dancing lights start to flicker across his vision, the heat of the shower making him lightheaded. He slides his right hand easily between them. Takes them both in one palm, not even moving it, just bucking in tandem with Jim’s rutting up into his clenched fist. Paces the thrust of his fingers to match, until he feels that hot little ass clench up tight around them and his heart pounds overtime.

  
He's not sure where to look. At Jim's face, open and sweet in ecstasy, his lips parted and gasping, his eyes screwed tight shut, lashes wet. At his perfect dick, pulsing out his pleasure, pearly spits of jizz running over Harvey's knuckles and it's that what does it, pushes him over the edge so it's him crying out in relief as release shudders through him, sweet and keen, waves and waves of it, their release mingling, slicking one another's dicks until the water sluicing down on them rinses it all away.  
  
"That was-" _don't say it. Don't say it was a mistake._    
"Awesome." Harvey finishes, firmly for him, before he has time to go all _Jim_ about it, even as Harvey’s still easing his fingers from the hot clutch of his body. "You're my best friend, Jim. One little soapy swordfight ain't changing anything."

  
Harvey's magnanimous about sex, but if this is a one-time deal he has to admit he'll be disappointed. Because the word ‘heartbroken’ is not in his vocabulary.  
"It could, though. Change things. Us."  
Harvey's chest squeezes. "What are you saying?"

 

Jim sounds so hesitant. Those baby blues so full of wounded hope and he's not pulling away and Harvey can't look away. Jim makes a soft noise. Rubs his nose against Harvey's cheek in a way that has Harvey's head reeling. For a second he doesn't understand. And then Jim is tilting his head, softly questing, his hand at the base of Harvey's back, and then their mouths meet, something that's not quite a kiss, just a curious touch of lips, rubbing softly together. It's fragile, like magic, not quite real: Harvey feels drunk, like he's falling in a dream. Maybe Jim feels the same way, judging from how they're clinging to one another. Pressed up against each other still, their dicks still touching, slippery wet, even though they're both spent, and it's weird how that feels even more intimate than jerking each other off. 

Jim sighs against his lips. Warm, sweet. Coffee and peppermint. His mouth is so soft. Plush. Harvey cradles the back of his neck, his shoulders. Rubs their noses together and breathes out a stunned laugh as Jim’s mouth opens wider beneath his, their tongues hesitantly nudging, joining, until Jim’s pushing his tongue into Harvey’s mouth and it gets wetter, lazy and earnest.

 

Time goes sort of stretchy, sweet and elastic as taffy. And Harvey’s never kissed someone like this before, for this long before, this deeply. It’s like drugs. Their hands all over one another, slick with soap, circling. Stroking palms across each other’s skin, until the water starts to run cold and Harvey reluctantly pushes the wet length of his hair from his eyes and kisses the tip of Jim’s nose.

Jim wrinkles his nose and flashes him a lopsided grin. “I think we’re probably clean now.”

“Yeah? I’m feelin’ pretty dirty myself…” Jim laughs softly at that, so that Harvey can’t help but kiss him again: his lips, his forehead. Says, quietly, “This does change things, then? Us?”

“Yes.” His voice is little more than a whisper, but the word is clear. Decided.

 

He holds his bad wrist out of the way as he lets Harvey towel him down. His cast, Harvey notes, is miraculously only a little damp. Draping the robe around his shoulders Harvey wraps him up in it. His hair’s starting to dry already, a brighter gold than usual, shiny and soft-looking. When he reaches up to ruffle it, Jim leans into his touch.

“Anything else I can do? I mean, while I’m here…”

“Actually…” Those blue eyes are so wide, sincere and deceptively innocent-looking for a hardened lawman. “I could use a little help in the bedroom.”

Harvey bites his lip. The flesh is pretty much down for the count right now, but the spirit is very willing indeed. “Is that right?”

“Uh huh.” Jim presses closer to him, looking up into his eyes in a way that Harvey never wants to lose now he’s finally got it.

“And what kinda help might that be?”

“Have you ever tried putting a clean duvet cover on one-handed?” His eyes are practically sparkling. All Harvey can do is laugh, and kiss him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to anyone reading this, especially the commenters. You are the absolute best x

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who reads this, especially to anyone leaving comments: you rock my world x


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